Eighteen Sunsets
by lingering nomad
Summary: Fenris and Hawke have been 'between conversations' since that night. On the spur of the moment, Fenris decides to change that. If only the words would come...


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue_," '_thoughts_,' _emphasis_

**A/N: **This is dedicated to the mod-squad over at Nexus for helping DA2 really live up to its potential. Some slight deviation from Bioware's story, in that Fenris got the book at the end of Act 1. Why? Because taking three years to cotton on that one of your inner circle is illiterate just doesn't fly. Plus, I figured Leandra might like something to do while her sons are off playing zombie roulette in a subterranean plague maze. Don't know why Bioware's Varric didn't give Fenris a proper nickname, but he totally should have, so I went with 'Spike.' Enjoy!

~Eighteen Sunsets~

Dogging Hawke's footsteps from the tavern, Fenris was sure of nothing except that he was actively seeking a confrontation with an angry mage. If Danarius had ever caught him in the company of someone like Isabela, all pouty, throaty cleavage, speculating on the more… _obsequious_ aspects of his enslavement—Well, the magister's wrath would have been extraordinary.

He was well aware that Hawke's penchant for sadism didn't match that of his one-time owner, but he'd borne witness to the apostate's ire when properly riled. It did not make for a pleasant sight and jealousy was hardly exclusive to magisters. Fenris knew what lurked behind the Amell Crest, beneath the curtsies and the half-smiles. Hawke was a fighter. He saved decorum for the beau monde of Hightown and the odd templar he couldn't gut with impunity, but those closest to him never had to guess where they stood.

If you rubbed him wrong, you knew it. Yet, if not for Corff calling out the man's order and Fenris glancing up to spy a swathe of long black hair and a scabbard embossed with Ferelden runes fading into the night, Hawke's presence at the tavern would have gone unmarked. Not that imploding the place would've improved matters, but Hawke had never been the sort to simply…_walk away._

It was, 'out of character,' in Varric's parlance. And if there was one thing Fenris refused to abide, it was an unpredictable mage. Never mind that Isabela's flirting had been going on for years, or that Hawke had never openly protested. That was _before_—

"Kaffar," Fenris swore under his breath. A wall rose at the end of the alley he'd entered, breaking his stride and his train of thought both. He pivoted and began stalking back in the direction he'd come from. His quarry had a smuggler's understanding of the labyrinth that was Lowtown's byways and he was gaining a new appreciation for the advantage that offered when throwing off pursuit.

Pausing to listen for the rustle of a thick woollen coat; the fall of sturdy leather on the cobbles, he assured himself that placating the apostate was a matter of survival. Danarius would never relent. Their scrimmage with Hadriana had proven as much. Whatever skills Fenris might command with a blade; whatever laws of nature his markings allowed him to bend, neither was of indefinite use against the Fade and what dwelled there. Like it or not, some fires could only be quelled by flame and without a mage on his side he would've been captured or dead several times over by now.

He turned a corner, and as if to belabour the point, a peripheral shift in the shadows was all the warning he received.

The blow landed like a battering ram. As the inevitable volley of stars burst across his vision, a steely grip clamped down on his arm, propelling him in an arc until the rough-hewn stone of a wall rushed up from behind. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and a glove-covered hand at his throat kept him from drawing it back. Instinct flared and the markings blazed, casting their feint luminescence across the face of his opponent.

As alternatives went it could have been infinitely worse, though Fenris dazedly acknowledged that an eyeful of Hawke in full warrior guise made for a dangerously compelling sight. The man was grim-faced, sword-arm cocked, several inches of blade already glinting above the sheathe. The glow of the lyrium seemed to catch him off guard, though. He blinked. Once, twice. And by the third sweep of lashes he was staggering backward, hand on Fenris' neck retracting as if scorched. Scuffle aborted, the elf set his weight against the wall and choked down a breath, rubbing his throat, flexing his jaw. Either the man was more furious than he'd realised or Hawke truly hadn't known who he was accosting. The mage had taken up a vigil against the opposite wall and was wordlessly giving him a onceover as he straightened. With his black hair, black coat, black gloves and black boots, the human's form remained half-obscured by the night, but the alley was narrow. If both of them stretched out their arms their hands would meet, and Fenris knew where to look now. He searched Hawke's face, steeling himself for the recriminations he expected to find.

Except, there were none to be had. Instead, Hawke looked wary, slightly apologetic and wholly perplexed at Fenris' presence in the alley. "Why are you out here, Wolf?"

The first utterance he'd heard from the mage in weeks.

Just this side of brusque. Tinged with curiosity and the barest hint of concern, but what struck like a punch to the gut was:

"…_Wolf?" _Fenris had questioned the first time. It was the night after Carver's letter. Little more than confirmation of his survival and a snide account of his duties as a Warden, but Hawke's smile was reaching his eyes for the first time in months, and Fenris had opened a bottle of the Agreggio to celebrate. It was summer. Hawke was dressed in a sleeveless tunic, all broad shoulders and thick biceps as he shrugged. "_They're, 'misunderstood' in Ferelden. Hunted to near extinction a few decades ago, but they found a way to hold on. They're tough. Clever. Resilient. Pack hunters, even if they do have a reputation for independence. It suits you."_

"_You think so?_"

"_I do._"

Fenris hadn't argued and Hawke never used it in the company of others. A small token as intimacies went, yet in that precise instant it burned like a brand. He tried to dismiss it as folly. Fenris; Wolf. It was the same blighted thing!

Only, it _wasn't_. Not at all.

One was the moniker of a slave – a _pet_. It asked nothing but obedience. The other, was weighted with purpose, with belonging. It sowed the seeds of understanding and hope. And also of expectation, of responsibility, and the potential to disappoint. It was something to live up to, but…what if he'd already failed?

"Don't call me that."

The objection tumbled from his lips before he could think and Fenris cursed himself as Hawke's expression shuttered. A muscle tightened near the mage's jaw as if he were biting something back and he said nothing further. Arms crossed, Hawke regarded him with blank insistence, waiting for an answer to his question that the elf wasn't certain he could give.

Beginning to panic, Fenris settled on bluster. "You have no right to eavesdrop on private conversations," he bit out. It sounded petty and evasive, even to his own ears, but the charade was driftwood to a drowning man and he held on tight.

Hawke stared at him dubiously for a moment. A gloved hand came up, raking back stray tendrils come loose from the braiding meant to keep it from his eyes. His gaze turned briefly skyward. Praying no doubt, though whether for strength or restraint, Fenris didn't dare guess. "I'm not sure how this escaped your notice," Hawke began gruffly, "but the bar of the Hanged Man isn't exactly a secluded setting. If you'd prefer to 'converse' without an audience, I'm sure Isabela will have no problem taking it upstairs."

The words might've been scathing if the man's heart were in them at all. As it was, they sounded jaded, hollow, making the bands of guilt around Fenris' chest squeeze ever tighter.

What _was_ he doing here?

Hawke didn't deserve this. Least of all – what was it now? – just over four months after Leandra's murder. And Fenris knew, because it was a loss that lodged like jagged ice between his ribs as well. He'd owed much to the Amell matriarch. Literacy being foremost on the list, but that wasn't all. She'd cooked for him, bought him clothes, told him stories about her brother and husband and children. Always thanking him for his time and his company as if a runaway slave could possibly have anywhere more pressing to be. It was as close to a family as he could remember having.

And in a single act of cowardice he'd thrown it all away. "Hawke—_Wreath_, I…"

The mage's eyes widened, and it was all Fenris could do to keep his gaze from wavering. The man's mother had been the last to call him by his given name. Until _that_ night, eighteen sunsets ago. When he'd asked Fenris to use it, husking the request against his skin in-between searing, open-mouthed kisses. This was as close as they'd come to acknowledging what lay between them. Not simply sex, but what had happened before and during and after, and the precariousness of the moment yawned like a chasm at his feet.

It may not have started in Hadriana's cavern, but what transpired there was the catalyst that brought them where they stood.

In that dank place, with the press of dark magic and the stench of fresh death fouling what little air there was, Fenris had ranted, and Hawke had remained calm, stoically giving him a place to pour all the venom bursting from wounds that should've long since dulled to faded scars. The man had been less accommodating later, when Fenris sought him out at the estate, but that was to be expected after running off and leaving things as he had.

"…_That's it? Just an apology?"_

"_If you wish, I can go. You need not see me again," _a bluff, and Hawke called it with a look.

"_All I want to know is what happened in there."_

Fenris didn't recall much of what was said; merely that his explanation had accomplished little aside from riling them both. He'd tried to leave. Hawke refused to let him go. There was the burning chill as the markings flared, and then a fire of a different sort as Hawke's mouth sealed over his. What followed…

Well, it couldn't be called 'gentle' by any stretch of the word. What passed between them had been too raw, too visceral for finesse, but there'd been something akin to reverence in Hawke's touch, as if every inch of contact was a privilege that the mage wasn't entirely convinced he deserved. _"Tell me what you want," _were his words, husked against Fenris' lips as they (quite literally) fell into Hawke's bed. Tentative, yet determined. As if the man would pull the very sun from its perch if Fenris so desired, and that was enough to coax out the truth: he wanted Hawke inside him. To breach and fill him, yes, but more than that, he'd wanted to be taken, to be claimed – to _belong_ to.

'_A slave's_ _need!_' his own voice had mocked. Submissive. Shameful. Yet bolstered by a veracity that made it undeniable. What he needed, was respite. From the past, from the future; from fallibility and pride; from the vortex of uncertainty that churned at the core of his liberation. What he craved, to the point of yearning in that moment, was the old familiar comfort of surrender, stripped of fear, stripped of force. And if there was anyone in Thedas he could trust with _that_ admission, it was Hawke.

If words existed to impart such things, Fenris didn't know them and so his body spoke on his behalf. Limbs shifting, spine arching until all ambiguity was gone. He remembered staring up into the slate coloured depths of Hawke's eyes, not daring to blink, hardly deigning to breathe. If he'd seen even a hint of scorn in that gaze—But he hadn't. What he got, was a breathless appeal to the Maker, sword-callused hands tangling in his hair, and a kiss that felt like a vow.

In the first few years after escaping Danarius, he'd avoided even referencing such acts, convinced that he would happily perish without ever partaking again. When he'd met Hawke, he was at a low point, ready to give _anything_ – gold, blood and yes, even _that _– for the chance to stop running. All the erstwhile bounty hunter had asked for, however, was the use of his blade-arm, and if there were any ulterior motives involved, they seemed set on the relative quietude of the mansion and the occasional glass of imported wine.

It was during one of the younger Hawke's not-quite-sober tavern rants that Fenris came to learn of the elder's stance on bedding women. Which was to say, Hawke didn't. He still wasn't sure if the caveat was born entirely of preference, or swayed in part by an apostate's wish to spare the next generation, but the idea of pursuing…_something_ with the man had been vaguely fascinating ever since. It began as potential currency; a last-ditch quid pro quo in the event that Fenris' need for assistance ever outstripped the mage's goodwill. Then, as the realisation dawned that Hawke was more inclined to take on a dragon than conclude such a deal, it slowly began to evolve into more.

On the night of its consummation, Fenris had consented on the premise that sex with Hawke might actually be good. Not merely pleasurable, but cleansing. Something against which to juxtapose the horrors he'd lived in Tevinter. And it _was_.

Danarius' pleasure had lurked in how far he could remove his slaves from their own; in the depths of debasement he could make them beg for with a look, a smirk, a word or two of gentle condescension, "…_Good boy._" But with Hawke, what came to mind was the shift of muscles in the back beneath Fenris' hands, panting breaths against his neck, and a convulsive grip on his thigh as the man eased his way inside him.

There was pain as well. A lot of it even, but Hawke kept kissing, kept coaxing, kept pushing. Steadily buffeting him with sensation, until the ache turned deep and sharp and sweet. His pleasure was Hawke's. The mage might have done 'the taking' in the common argot, but to Fenris, it'd felt like a gift. They found a rhythm, primal and easy as the roll of the tides, and for a while, the world narrowed down to the heat and strength of the body above his; to the ebb and surge of motion within.

At some point, he even managed to forget what the man truly was – and what he could _do_ – which made the reminder all the more stark when it came.

It shouldn't have jarred him as much as it had. All mages were vessels of the Fade and the vast majority had precious little control over when and where it ended up spilling. Hawke might've been more disciplined than most, but with his guard down, locked in an act defined by impulse and emotion, rapidly hurtling toward its crescendo—Fenris had noticed the feint ripple of power, like a mirage in the distance, swelling along Hawke's skin, but drunk on lustful euphoria, meeting the man thrust for thrust as he chased his release, he'd paid it no mind.

Until the thrice-cursed lyrium began to throb beneath his skin.

He didn't recognise what he was seeing, at first. The memories flashed like starbursts, there for an instant, gone the next. The moment came as he did. A splitting of sorts. As if the edge of pulsating pleasure had cut clean through him and into the Veil, and suddenly all that was hidden came bursting into view. He didn't black out so much as lose himself in the maze of what-had-been. How long he tarried, he couldn't say, but when he came back to himself Hawke was asleep. He'd searched his mind for the memories – he remembered remembering. But they were _gone_.

The sense of déjà vu had turned his stomach, pushing bile up his throat. He'd sat upright, face in his hands as a new series of events replayed before his eyes:

A high, embellished ceiling, lilting conversations in Tevene. The scent of blood and an echo of agony, offset by an airy laugh and the tinkling splash of wine being served. It was cold and he was naked. Bound. Trembling. There was the taste of leather in his mouth and the burn of a throat worn raw from screaming, but what brought the wretched tears of panic to his eyes was the airless, black abyss of not knowing – where he was, or why, or simply _who_. And then, that demon distorted visage filled his vision, smiling down. A serpent, charming a mouse already writhing in the throes of its poison. "_Ah, my little Fenris. How splendid to have you join us again…"_

When he'd gone to Hawke that night, it was to lay down some of the rancour he harboured toward others like him. Instead, he'd been reminded of its reason for being. When he'd gone to Hawke's bed, it was in the hope that what transpired there would help to ease some of his pain. Instead, he'd poured salt on old wounds. What he'd wanted, above all else, was to go forward. Instead, he'd ricocheted back to the start.

He couldn't stay after that, but neither could he leave Hawke to wake up alone.

"_We can work through this," _was Hawke's response when he told him, voice level, yet rough. Gravel on sand. The man held his gaze as they spoke, heart laid bare in the deep dark blue of those eyes, and Fenris couldn't miss the silent scream beneath the temperance. '_Please don't leave me, I've lost too much as it is!'_

Hawke was a proud man. The unapprised might call it arrogance even, and if there was one thing he did not do, it was beg. That was as close as Fenris had ever heard him come. Yet even so, he'd all but thrown it in his face.

Eighteen days had passed since those words were spoken. Close to three weeks of deafening silence. It had been years since they'd gone that long between conversations, and Fenris…_missed _it – missed _him_.

The bastard could get under his skin and prickle like nettles, but he soothed too – a ratio that improved the less time he spent with a certain taint-addled, sewer-dweller. And as often as Hawke made him angry, not once, in three and a half years had he ever made him fear. Whatever else the man was, he was solid. He was safety. And without the prospect of his company, the mansion was starting to feel more like an unnervingly large crypt than a home.

It was then, in that dimly lit passage that smelled of urine and lye, that Fenris understood why he'd left a gorgeous, salacious woman in a bar to chase a short-tempered, stab-happy apostate through the backstreets of Lowtown. He didn't want to simply _give up_. On Hawke; on their, whatever-it-was. And he didn't want Hawke to do so, either.

The admission was progress, certainly. Although, knowing what he _didn't _want was one thing. Knowing where to take it from there…

Hawke's expression had grown pensive as the seconds dragged on. At last, he heaved a sigh, taking a careful step closer. He frowned, lips parting and Fenris saw the misunderstanding unfold before the first syllable hit the air. "You don't have to explain, you know. Isabela," Hawke shrugged, "she's attractive; adventurous. And Maker knows she's made no bones about—" He stopped short; cleared his throat. "Look Wol—uh, Fenris, I get it, alright? You need…normalcy. And I," another awkward lift of a shoulder. "I understand." As Hawke spoke, Fenris spied the motion of a gloved hand from the corner of his eye, as if the mage had thought to reach for him, only to abort the attempt along with the use of his nickname.

"…_What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?_"

Something hard and bitter lodged in Fenris' throat and he clamped his eyes shut. "Fasta vaas," he mouthed under his breath. He'd been _such _a fool. So much to regret. How was he ever going to mend what lay broken—

"Watch out!"

For the second time that night, the elf's back collided with a wall of stone as a wall of burly human slammed into his front. He thought he felt Hawke jerk, but then the mage was rounding on the mouth of the alley, eddies of iridescent power pooling in hands. Fenris' greatsword was free of its sheathe before he saw them. And then he did: dwarves, Carta, half a dozen at first count. Five blade-wielders and a sniper, closing in from either side. A surge of mana lashed out like a whip, throwing the sniper to the ground and collapsing his ribcage with a wet crack of bone and a gurgling shriek. Raising his blade, it occurred to Fenris that Hawke's evasive tactics and punch-and-choke greeting seemed far less vindictive all of a sudden, and then, the first slashing thrust of a dagger bounced off his sword and the rush of battle drove all else from his mind.

It became quickly apparent that there was something…_off_ about their assailants.

Whatever it was, it served to make them reckless, which depreciated Fenris' concern. Another surge of magic pulsed through the alley, knocking the last of the would-be assassins off balance. It proved a fatal setback as Fenris swung, blade cleaving unhindered. Skin split, muscle parted, vertebrae detached. The body spasmed as the head swerved sharply into the darkness, the dwarf's own daggers sounding his death knell as they clattered impotently at his feet.

The corpse had yet to finish falling when Fenris straightened, eyes darting, scanning for onlookers. Ambush or not, they hadn't been _that _overwhelmed! There was no cause for Hawke to expose himself so blatantly! He rounded, drawing a breath to berate the fool mage for his carelessness—only to have it catch in his throat.

Time slowed to a crawl as he watched Hawke sway. Slump. Crumple in a barely audible swoosh of coat and scrape of boots. The hilt of the man's sword rose above the scabbard at his shoulder, untouched.

Fenris' grip turned nerveless. His own blade dropped with a clang as he dashed, sprinting blindly. He tripped over a corpse, scrambling the rest of the way on all fours. The darkness became denser closer to the ground and it was only as he knelt at Hawke's side that he noticed the stalk of a crossbow bolt protruding from his back, just below the shoulder. Slightly downward angle. Too far to the right for the heart. An artery? No! He would've gone down during the fight if it was. Which left—

Hawke coughed. A hoarse, hacking rattle that confirmed Fenris' suspicion: punctured lung. Knowing what was wrong didn't tell him what to do, however. Tending the injured was never a duty that fell to him. He checked the spot where the arrow protruded, less than an inch above Hawke's clothing. The wool was soaked through, staining his hands an inky red.

"Hawke! Wreath, what should I—?!" He was fighting to stay calm, but what he could see of the man's face beneath the shroud of his hair was shockingly pale, the colour of wax and ashes left too long in the grate. With fingers that shook, Fenris brushed back the strands. Sticky darkness oozed from Hawke's nose, stained his lips, clumped his hair, leaving a macabre smear across his cheek as Fenris moved it aside. So much blood.

_Too_ much, which meant, "Poison?!" he husked, aghast.

"W—Wolf…?" That one, gravelly syllable seemed to take more energy than the man possessed, worsening the grisly seepage from his airways.

"Yes, I'm here! What do I _do, _Wreath?!" Fenris had begun rummaging through whatever pockets he could reach with the least amount of jostling, but he was coming up short. The ornate flask on Hawke's belt contained only lyrium. An apostate's failsafe against templars and demons alike, but the mage clearly hadn't come to Lowtown spoiling for a battle. All Fenris found was a white handkerchief, embroidered with the red crest of the Amells.

It was a likely gift from Leandra, though he doubted she would've foreseen its eventual purpose as he used it to clean blood off the face of her firstborn. Hawke's eyes fluttered open, rolling ominously in their sockets. "You…hurt?" he choked, sending another swell of red past his lips.

"I'm _fine_ you fool!" Fenris snarled. Why was the idiot wasting his breath inquiring about _him _when—

Something like relief diluted the pain on Hawke's face. The mage's fingers twitched, hand lifting off the ground, advancing less than an inch before another bloody coughing fit sapped the strength for even that from his limbs.

Fenris lunged to his feet and ran. He would realise later that he'd left both their weapons untended, but even then it would seem irrelevant. All that mattered was Anders, Diamondback, Varric's suite.

"…_I can't imagine what Hawke sees in you._"

Such was the Abomination's idea of small talk over cards. A generic barb, easily deflected with a curt, '_Likewise,' _or a sarcastic, '_How surprising_,' but with his heart bobbing too close to the surface, Fenris had impaled himself upon it instead.

"_It is done. Leave it be._"

The mage had looked at him askance, the haughty disdain conveyed in that one traversing sweep of his eyes a match for any magister. "_Well, good. I always knew he had some sense._"

Again, Fenris should've deflected, '_Yes, for a man who takes counsel from Blight-mad sewer rats, he's very sensible.' _Yet, once again, he threw himself upon the spines.

"_Do not make light of this. Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever done._" He couldn't quite return his focus to the game after that. He'd played his hand and excused himself, which brought him to the bar and his starring role in Isabela's oily sex-slave delusion.

The wind howled in his ears as he ran.

He flew past dormant trader stalls and whores actively plying their trade, all the while cataloguing markers to make sure he found the way back, as much as toward his destination. '_Please_ _let the bastard healer still be there! Please don't let it be too late!_' The supplications raced through his mind, echoing the frantic pace of his strides and driving him on as he tore through the alleys. As the seconds stretched like aeons, however, one minute becoming two, and then three with the Hanged Man's doors still excruciatingly out of reach, Fenris began to direct his pleas outward. Into the night and past the stars. '_Please, Andraste, Bride of the Maker, please don't let him die!'_

He bolted up a stairway, veering left, and suddenly the tavern's morbid signage filled his sights like an apparition. He burst through the doors, dodged a cursing Edwina and startled Norah into dropping her tray. A chorus of voices rose up in protest, but Fenris didn't slow down to glance back. Taking the stairs three at a time, he lurched to a halt in Varric's doorframe, stopping only to skim the faces at the table.

Anders' long, skinny form was folded into a corner, brown eyes rounding warily as Fenris' stare settled on him.

He had a fairly clear idea what the human was seeing: a winded, sweaty elf, splattered with several dwarves worth of blood. The contents of one's skull congealed in chunks along his torso – the result of phasing an arm through a rogue's head, while simultaneously repelling two of his fellows with a lyrium blast. The coppery tang of violence was sickeningly palpable, matted in his hair and soaking his tunic, but he'd known Anders for years. It wasn't the suggestion of carnage so much as direct, unflinching scrutiny that brought the ex-Warden's hackles up. Yes, the blonde didn't like anyone looking too closely. Not even those who supposedly knew all his secrets, which begged the question, how much more did he strive to conceal?

At any other time, the apostate's apprehension might've been something to pounce on and plunder, but right then, intimidation was a hindrance Fenris couldn't afford. "It's Hawke!" he gritted out, scattering coin and cards as he reached across the table and hauled the mage from his seat.

Hawke's name performed a magic of its own as it galvanised not only Anders into immediate, unquestioning cooperation, but Varric as well. Suddenly there were potions aplenty, and the crowds were parting as if the Divine herself had issued the order.

As they made their hurried way back through the alleys, Fenris kept up his prayer. He didn't try to make deals; didn't offer promises of repentance or conversion. He just…_begged_. As a man born of a people whose gods were myth, pleading on behalf of an Andrastian apostate, it seemed like presumption enough.

When they came upon Hawke, there was a shift of sorts in Anders' demeanour, and Fenris got the eerie sense that it was the spirit the mage harboured, aligning to his purpose after some internal debate. "Keep watch!" the human snapped, self-possessed for the moment at least as he rushed to Hawke's side.

"He's going to be okay, Spike. Blondie will fix it," Varric assured, though to the elf's tapered ears, it sounded like the dwarf was trying to convince himself as much as him.

For once, though, the storyteller's version held true to the facts.

"…Carta, huh," Varric more stated than asked, stooping to examine one of the corpses. "Hm, strange. I know you and Junior went a few rounds with them back when you ran with Athenril, but that was business. The Carta is the one big C in Thedas not known for nursing grudges on principle. Bad for the margins." The man paused, ostensibly to think, though knowing Varric, dramatic effect would've been reason enough. "Looks like we have a bona fide mystery on our hands. Unless you've been holding out on me, Hawke?"

The mage stood propped against a wall, blood-stiffened coat wrapped around his shoulders. His tunic and undershirt lay in bloody rags on the ground – the only casualties of Anders' care for the night. Hawke's eyes flicked to the dwarf, expression blank. "Yes, Varric," he deadpanned, "In-between doing the job of every major authority figure in the city, minding a Dalish wrist-slitter who's apt to kill us all with her Blight-mirror, and knob-slobbering an eight foot heretic who, incidentally, is going to storm the Keep with my muted carcass impaled on his horns if he _ever_ – Maker forbid – learns about that Fade-link detail, I became unaccountably bored and decided to piss off Orzammar's criminal elite."

There was a beat of silence, and then Varric's rugged face split into a grin. "What'd I tell you, Spike. Good as new!" he declared, landing a genial slap on Fenris' back.

The elf's own appraisal wasn't quite so glowing, however. Hawke's voice came out ragged. His face held fast to its deathly pallor and his eyes looked bruised, incongruously vulnerable amidst his strong, patrician features. Small tremors kept wracking his form and Fenris couldn't tell if it was due to cold, or weakness, or both. But Hawke was breathing. He was upright. He was speaking.

He was _alive_.

Releasing a breath, Fenris' thumb moved over the hank of drying linen he clutched. The handkerchief he'd pulled from Hawke's coat. It'd slipped his mind, if not from his grasp as he ran to find help. It was ruined, though. Irreversibly soaked with the blood of its owner.

"…_Watch out!_"

Fenris scowled as he remembered, grip tightening at the implication: that bolt had been meant for _him_. And considering the difference between his and Hawke's statures, the crosshairs had been trained on his throat. Hawke was a warrior, his magic, a weapon. It pushed and it pulled; it crushed and it shielded. It could force the very Fade itself into a man, making him convulse until his flesh burst apart – but it did not _heal_. And without any potions on hand…

Fenris' gaze fell on one of the dwarves at his feet. Sightless, soulless eyes stared back. He swallowed, jaw tight and looked away.

Very deliberately, he set about pealing the blood-stained linen off his palm and twisted it into a rope. He fashioned a loop, slipped it over his wrist and secured the knot. He couldn't keep it indefinitely. Blood, and that of a mage in particular, was too provocative a thing in Kirkwall to put on display, but he would find a way to improvise. He would wear it. And if he ever again felt tempted to doubt this man, he'd feel it's grip and remember.

Varric was still talking, pretending to speculate on the Carta's motives while Anders poked about the bodies for clues. In truth, they were simply waiting for Hawke to recoup enough of his strength to walk back.

Gathering his courage, Fenris tilted his chin up and looked the dark-haired mage in the eye. He still had no idea what to say, but answering Hawke's nod of solemn thanks with a nod of his own seemed to cover all that was needed right then.


End file.
